Author: Chris Collett
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/chris-collett/page,17,530504-baby_lies_reissue.html
‘Coffee’s fine.’
‘Go and make yourself comfortable.’
Knox sat on the sofa, and when she brought the coffee through she came and sat beside him. Still uncertain about whether it would be welcomed, Knox was considering how and when to make his move. He needn’t have bothered. Quite suddenly she turned and kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue pushing apart his teeth, while at the same time she reached down a hand, aggressively exploring between his legs. In seconds his zip was open and her hand inside. ‘That will do nicely.’ She smiled mischievously. The next morning when the post-coital elation had waned, Knox was consumed with guilt. He tried calling Christie’s number several times, but each time was cut off. He tried not to think about what that might mean. Late in the afternoon he watched out of the window as Michael’s grandparents dropped him safely off again.
* * *
On Monday morning Knox went into the office as usual. In place of Mariner, DCI Sharp took the usual Monday morning briefing meeting.
‘Have we heard from the boss?’ someone asked.
‘He’s a few more days’ leave due. After that verdict it wouldn’t surprise me if he stays away a little longer,’ Sharp said. ‘Right, now to work. Over the weekend we’ve had the usual spate of burglaries, TDAs and Saturday night brawls.’
‘Any domestics?’ Knox asked tentatively.
Sharp frowned at her notes. ‘Not that I’m aware. Most of this stuff is pretty routine and we’re still following up on Ocean Blue and the abduction case . . .’
Knox tuned himself out of what the DCI was saying. When the briefing was over he’d go across to the nursery to see Christie, apologise for Saturday night and find out what it was that she’d wanted—
‘Tony, I’d like you to handle it.’
At the mention of his name, Knox came round, realising that he’d no idea what Sharp was talking about. ‘Sorry, ma’am?’
‘Wake up, DS Knox. I want you to talk to Mrs Wrigley. She’s convinced that her holiday cottage was used as a bolt hole by baby Jessica’s kidnappers. She’s coming in to make a statement,’ Sharp glanced up at the wall clock, ‘about now.’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’ said Knox.
‘Probably,’ agreed Sharp. ‘But she’s driven quite a long way to report it, so I think the least we can do is talk to her.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Shit. He’d have to phone the nursery instead. But when he did the line was engaged and he couldn’t get through. Christie’s phone was switched off.
Betty Wrigley seemed to Knox to be a busybody. The owner of a holiday cottage near Bakewell in Derbyshire, it wasn’t long before he had her pegged as the kind of hostess who requires all the intricate details of her guests’ lives, and takes offence when they don’t oblige. When this particular couple who had stayed at her holiday cottage weren’t forthcoming, she was irked. ‘They barely communicated with me and then they left abruptly, abandoning the cottage part way through the week and returning the key, without so much as a goodbye. Very strange behaviour, I thought.’
‘Perhaps they had a family emergency,’ Knox offered.
‘So why didn’t they just say?’
‘What were their names?’ asked Knox patiently, thinking he probably should at least write some of this down.
‘Mr and Mrs Jones. I mean, that makes you think straight away, doesn’t it?’
‘It makes me think that maybe their name was Jones,’ said Knox, drily, making a note of it.
Betty Wrigley glared. She wasn’t warming to him, Knox could tell. ‘Mr Jones booked the cottage over the telephone for the week. He sent me a cash deposit and paid the rest in cash when they arrived.’
‘There’s no crime in that, said Knox. ‘What was it that made you suspicious of them?’
‘Well, it was the secrecy to begin with. They kept themselves to themselves, even the baby. I mean, normally couples are proud of a new baby, and want to show it off, but not these two. In fact, I hadn’t even realised that they had a baby when they arrived, but suddenly after a couple of days there were baby clothes on the washing line. And when I went to tidy up the cottage after they’d gone I found nappies in the bin.’
‘Perhaps there was something wrong with the baby.’
‘Perhaps.’ But she was sceptical. ‘Then on the Tuesday I thought I’d drop by to see how they were getting along and they’d gone, door locked and keys pushed back through the letterbox. They’d left a note saying that Mrs Jones wasn’t feeling well so they had decided to go home early.’
It seemed to Knox like a perfectly sound explanation. ‘Have you still got the note?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it’s here somewhere. I kept it because I thought you’d want to see it.’ She rummaged through a capacious handbag for several minutes, finally producing a carefully folded piece of paper. Like the note that had been left with baby Jessica it was handwritten in block capitals but, to Knox’s untrained eye, there was no further similarity. Nonetheless he would send it to the lab for comparison.
He showed her the e-fit of the kidnapper. ‘Does she look like Mrs Jones?’
‘I didn’t see her, well, at least, only at a distance. As I said, my dealings were with Mr Jones. It could have been her,’ she added hopefully.
But the description of Mr Jones didn’t fit anyone they’d had in the frame, and Betty Wrigley was unable to pick him out in any of the photographs of the male animal rights activists Knox showed her. Most of them were, she said, too young. ‘And Mr Jones had a beard. They were a more mature couple.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t really see Mrs Jones.’
‘Well the man was, and I got a sense—’
A sense? What was the woman now, clairvoyant? ‘Well, thank you very much for coming in Mrs Wrigley,’ Knox stood up, concluding the interview.
She looked crestfallen. ‘Is that all? I could do one of those identity parades for you.’
‘We’ll call you back if we need that,’ said Knox, pretty sure that they wouldn’t.
After that, Knox needed a cuppa and went up to the canteen. He joined a lengthy queue behind two uniforms, deep in conversation, and the word ‘suicide’ caught his attention.
‘What suicide?’ he asked.
It was PC Mick Crawford who’d mentioned it. ‘BTP reported it first thing this morning. They found the body of an unidentified young woman on the railway line between Kingsmead and Bournville stations over the weekend, a probable suicide. Bit grim so they said.’
‘A young woman?’ Knox echoed, his stomach bubbling a little. ‘Where exactly?’
‘Back of Cottesbrooke Park.’ So, miles away from the Golden Cross, Knox thought with relief.
‘It looks straightforward so we’re leaving it to them,’ Crawford said. It was standard procedure for the Transport Police to handle any deaths on the railways. The only exceptions being when the death happened to be connected with an ongoing police investigation. Knox hoped this wasn’t going to be one of those exceptions. ‘They wanted to know if we’d had any mispers reported over the weekend, but we’ve got none that fit their profile.’
‘You’ve got a description?’ asked Knox.
‘Sure.’
‘Can I see?’
Knox followed Crawford back to his desk. He didn’t know why he was compelled to look at the description, and afterwards he half-wished he hadn’t. An involuntary groan escaped his lips. The girl had a fading bruise running the length of her face.
‘You all right?’ Crawford asked.
Chapter Eleven
Back at his desk, a phone call determined the exact location of the body and Knox grabbed his coat. As he crossed the office he almost collided with DCI Sharp. ‘Where are you off to in such a rush?’
‘Transport Police have found a body on the railway track.’
‘It’s a suicide,’ said Sharp. ‘It’s not one for us.’
‘I think it could be Christie Walker, the girl who gave us the description of baby Jessica
’s abductor.’
‘How the hell did you come up with that?’
‘She called me on Saturday morning and wanted to meet with me. I . . . er, couldn’t make it at the time she wanted and I haven’t been able to get hold of her since. Her boyfriend used to knock her about.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean—’
‘I know. I just want to be certain, ma’am.’
‘All right then, follow it through, but unless it’s definitely her, you leave it to BTP.’
‘Yes, ma’am. It’s just for my own peace of mind.’
‘Well I admire your thoroughness, DC Knox.’
Could Christie have been that desperate? Knox had assumed when she called that she’d wanted practical help, the name of a hostel or a women’s refuge, but what if she’d got beyond that? He wished now that he’d saved her message so that he could listen to it again.
The body had been found at a point along the main Bristol to Birmingham railway line below a footbridge that lay at the entrance to Cottesbrooke Park, an area of tamed green lawns and rough woodland. Though wide enough to take a vehicle the bridge was blocked off at one end by three concrete bollards, making it a footway leading into the park. It came at the right-angled junction of two roads of terraced houses, the nearest of which was thirty metres away. The railway bridge from which the young woman had jumped was now jammed with emergency vehicles and a small group of onlookers, all illuminated by flickering blue strobes.
Identifying himself, Knox was allowed access through a gate in the steel perimeter fencing that would normally be kept locked. He cut through brambles and nettles before slithering down the muddy, grass covered embankment onto the clinker, and walked across the sleepers towards the white tent that had been constructed just the other side of the line. Just being on the track, with the smell of the railway, prompted a gruesome rush of memories from twenty years ago.
The Transport Police investigation team had begun its work. Approaching the nearest officer Knox was directed on to the man leading the investigation, Andy Olsen. He introduced himself.
‘And how can I help you, DC Knox?’ Olsen asked.
‘I think I might know the victim. Can I take a look?’
‘Be my guest.’
With some reluctance Knox pulled back the flimsy flap that provided some privacy from the inquisitive world. Some deaths are unreal, neat and clean, leaving the victim’s body almost unscathed, but Christie Walker’s death had been the opposite. Her limbs were angled in grotesque and improbable positions, the flesh on one side of her face, torn open and bloodied. After a moment, Knox became aware that someone was speaking to him.
‘Is it her?’ Olsen was asking.
Knox nodded, dully, his gut turned to lead. ‘Her name is Christie Walker,’ he said.
‘I’ve heard that name before,’ Olsen said, trying to figure it out.
‘She was a key witness during the baby abduction case. She worked at the nursery that Jessica was taken from.’
‘Of course.’
‘She was also the girl who gave us the most detailed description of the abductor.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Olsen. ‘You never did find the abductor, did you? Do you think someone might have wanted her out of the way?’
‘She was in an abusive relationship,’ Knox told him. ‘And the guy who was beating her up was the same guy who made the hoax ransom demand. He’s been charged with PCJ.’
‘And probably thinks she grassed him up. She wouldn’t be the first person to take this way out. Either way it looks as if this is one for you after all. I’ll let you have everything we’ve got so far.’
‘Thanks. Who found her?’ asked Knox.
‘One of our goods drivers. He managed to stop in time, but they’ve taken him to Selly Oak to be treated for shock.’
‘So if he stopped in time how come she’s in such a bad way?’
‘We think she must have been hit by an earlier train. The high speed one during the night may not have even noticed. If he did feel it, the driver would have thought he’d hit a fox or something. There’s not much blood in the area where she was found so she could have been dragged a little way. Hard to tell which side of the bridge she jumped off.’
‘There’s no ID on her?’ Knox was thinking particularly of Christie’s phone.
Olsen shook his head. It wasn’t unusual. Suicides often didn’t want to be identified. Olsen nodded down towards her feet. ‘She’s lost one of her shoes, too. Our guys are out there looking, but as far as I know, they haven’t found it yet. It’s possible it could have been carried some distance by the train that hit her of course.’
* * *
The train driver who’d made the discovery was in accident and emergency in a curtained cubicle waiting to be attended to. In late middle age, his complexion had a greyish pallor. ‘I was coming out of Kingsmead station, just building up a bit of speed when I saw her,’ he told Knox, the image clearly still very much on his mind. ‘Whenever you see something big and bulky like that up ahead you always think, and hope — you hear stories all the time. I could see what it was when I was about twenty yards away so I had time to stop. She was just to the side of the track, sort of half on, half off, if you know what I mean. She must have been hit by an earlier train, but I managed to stop before I ran over her. I got out and had a look.’ He gulped hard and Knox cast around for a receptacle in case he was about to throw up. ‘God, I wish I hadn’t, though . . .’
‘It was the right thing to do,’ Knox said. ‘Thanks.’ As he got up to go the driver gripped his arm so hard it was painful. ‘Do you think I’ll ever forget it?’ he wanted to know.
‘It’ll fade in time,’ Knox told him, reminding himself of the same thing.
By the time Knox got to the mortuary, Stuart Croghan was beginning his preliminary examination. Knox scrubbed up, put on greens and lurked in the background. He hated this aspect of the job. It was one of those things you almost, but never quite, got used to. For a while the only sounds were the clink of surgical instruments and Croghan’s commentary murmured into the Dictaphone as he and his assistant, a medical student, worked. In the end Knox couldn’t bear the tension any longer. ‘Has Bond knocked her about recently, in the last couple of days?’ he wanted to know, the uncertainty eating into him.
‘Not in the last day,’ said Croghan. ‘She’s been dead more than twenty-four hours. It looks as if she died sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning. There must have been other trains that drove past without seeing her. And she’s a mess, so it may be impossible to tell whether she’d recently been subjected to a beating. As well as the broken neck that I’m assuming caused her death, there are a whole range of impact injuries from the fall and from being struck by the train.’
Knox had fallen silent.
‘Are you all right?’ Croghan sounded curious. It wasn’t as if Knox hadn’t been through all this before.
‘She rang me on Saturday night and I was supposed to meet her. I think she was going to turn him in, or maybe she just needed help to find somewhere safe she could go. I had other arrangements so I put her off.’
Croghan picked up on his tone of voice. ‘Not your fault, Tony,’ he said, lightly. ‘If she wanted to do it she’d have done it anyway. You think she killed herself because you stood her up? There were other reasons.’
‘I’ll never know now though, will I? Cause of death?’
‘I need to do more work, but at first glance, a broken neck and impact injuries, multiple fractures, would be enough to do the job. But you’re right, there are other, older injuries.’
‘Like I said, she’d been subjected to physical abuse over time.’ Knox clenched and unclenched his fists. Before he left Knox asked: ‘Would she have known anything about it?’
‘I doubt it. The break in her neck is clean and the initial impact of it would have knocked her unconscious straight away. She wouldn’t have felt anything.’
It was small comfort. Knox still
left the mortuary feeling sick. It was a horrible way to choose to die, and now he would have to live with the thought that he might have prevented it. A couple of weeks ago he’d offered Christie a way out, a lifeline. But then when the time had come he’d snatched it away from her, and all for the sake of a shag.
* * *
By the time Knox had driven to the garage that Jimmy Bond owned, the guilt had been displaced by anger and his blood was up. He pulled on to the forecourt, tyres protesting at the abrupt halt.
‘Where’s Bond?’ Bursting onto the forecourt, Knox yelled at an overall-clad youth who trained a jet-wash on the forecourt cars. He gestured towards the glass-fronted showroom. Shoving open the swing door, Knox picked out Bond immediately; smooth and oily today in his designer suit, doing the hard-sell on a second-hand Ford Focus to a young couple. He was bigger than Knox, but the sergeant was stronger and angrier, and Bond barely had time to glance round before he’d been grabbed by the shoulders, spun round and slammed against the wall, an elbow across his throat.
‘What was it this time?’ Knox breathed menacingly, his face inches from Bond’s. ‘Didn’t she cook your steak the way you like it? Or did you get it into your stupid skull that she shopped you? You wouldn’t know loyalty if it jumped up and bit you on the arse, would you? You might think you’ve got away with this, you bastard, but I know the history and one way or another I’ll trace it back to you.’
For several seconds Bond was afraid, but there was something else in his eyes; he was perplexed, too. ‘What’s going on?’ he managed.
‘We’ve found Christie’s body,’ said Knox. ‘That’s what’s going on.’
Bond went slack and the colour drained from his face. ‘What?’
Caught off guard by the reaction, Knox released his grip and Bond slid down against the wall. The young car-buyers had backed away and were making a discreet exit through the swing doors.
‘Bit of a stunner, eh, Jimmy?’ Knox went on, gasping for breath. ‘See what you did to her.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Christie and me broke up.’
‘When?’